J.B. Toner
“Well, Mick, what’s this stuff called again—Bushmills?
It’s very good, but I’ve had better yet:
The scarlet ale of Aztec altars wet,
The absinthe of an abdicated will,
The mead of churning spilth from poison mills,
The wine of groaning thralldom’s tortured sweat,
The black milk of despair from souls of jet,
Sweet seas of tears that drown the looming hills.”
“Well, Nick, mine’s not an educated tongue;
I don’t know much of vintages or years,
Nor whether your brew’s better than my own—
But Bushmill’s drunk in bars where songs are sung
In fellowship, and if you feed on tears,
The odds are that you’re going to drink alone.”
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